


Loss of the Senses

by Goddess_of_the_Night



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Blind Sherlock, Case Fic, Deaf Sherlock, Declarations Of Love, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Injury Recovery, John Watson Takes Care of Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Mild Language, Non-Graphic Violence, Pining John, Porn with Feelings, Pouting Sherlock, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Trying to be Nice, Sign Language, Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension, loss of senses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:39:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4803137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goddess_of_the_Night/pseuds/Goddess_of_the_Night
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or "Five Times Sherlock Lost his Senses and One Time He Used Them All to Worship John"</p><p>Over the course of two years, Sherlock loses each of his five senses: Taste, Smell, Touch, Sound, and Sight. John is a saint who takes care of him despite Sherlock's insistence to push him away.</p><p>"He groans at the pain in his entire head, minutely moving his head back and forth as though denying the reality.<br/>“Sherlock?” He hears John’s hopeful voice on his right.<br/>“John,” he croaks out, feeling relieved by his presence. Of course he’s here; he’s always here when Sherlock wakes up in hospital, “We have to stop meeting like this,” he adds lightly.<br/>John can’t help a short laugh before agreeing, “Damn right we do.”"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Taste

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a short, simple 5+1 idea but it grew in to this. While it's much longer than originally anticipated, I can't say I'm very sorry about it.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this adventure.

“Jesus Christ!” Sherlock’s shout from the kitchen draws John’s attention from the case write-up he’s working on in his chair.

“Sherlock?” John calls out.

“’m fine,” comes the muffled reply.

John’s eyebrows rise in shocked confusion before he moves to place his laptop on the desk and make his way to the kitchen. He stops in the doorway, caught off guard by what he sees: Sherlock – right hand clasped over his mouth – glaring at a cup of tea on the table.

“Did you make tea?”

The glare is turned on to John, “It’s hardly the first time.”

“True,” he concedes, “but still a bit of a shock. And is that… _two_ cups of tea?” He asks, pointing to the pair of steaming cups.

“I thought you might enjoy a cup, as well,” he says harshly, trying to cover his embarrassment.

John’s mouth drops open slightly before closing, “That would be nice, actually.”

Sherlock growls and grabs both cups, throwing the contents of each in to the sink angrily.

“Oi!” John says angrily, gesturing towards the sink helplessly.

“I didn’t do it right,” Sherlock snarls.

“Hot liquids cool down, you know,” he belittles, still offended at the sudden denial.

Sherlock’s glare intensifies before he mocks, “Oh, is that right, Professor?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” he snarks, “so why’d you toss it then?”

Sherlock’s lips pull together in to a disgruntled pucker, no answer coming forth. John settles in to a comfortable stance – arms crossed over his chest – and adopts an _I’ll wait_ stare, complete with raised eyebrows.

They stare each other down in silence for nearly two minutes before Sherlock sighs and admits begrudgingly, “I made the tea wrong.”

“How does one make tea wrong?”

“I steeped it for too long.”

“But you always add sugar to yours; it would cover the bitterness.”

“Yes, but you take _yours_ plain.”

John is rendered speechless by the thoughtful remark long enough for an embarrassed Sherlock to slip from the kitchen.

“Oh,” John whispers to no one.

\---

A few hours later around lunch time, another shout draws John’s attention away from the TV.

“Bloody hell!” It’s followed by the sound of pots and pans moving and a wooden spoon falling to the floor.

“Sherlock?” John turns his head to the left, trying to peer into the kitchen from the couch but can’t see the other man.

“’m fine,” he replies, same as before.

John sighs as he pushes up from the couch, “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before,” he mumbles as he makes his way to the other room and stops in the doorway, “What’d you do this time?”

Sherlock is drinking a glass of water as something on the stove begins to boil. He finishes and says, “I…I was tasting the sauce and it was a bit too warm,” he says without facing John, instead moving to stir the sauce with a new spoon.

“Is this…edible?” John jokes gently as he motions to the stove.

Sherlock tsks, offended at the question, “Does it not smell edible?”

“It does,” John says truthfully, “but it wouldn’t be your first lethal experiment to appear safe.”

“Well, it’s lunch and it should be ready soon,” he says, still facing away from the other man.

“Lunch for…us?”

Sherlock finally turns to face him with a look of exasperation, “Your disbelieving pauses are quite aggravating, do you know that? Yes, for us; I’m a bit famished after finishing the case yesterday and thought you might enjoy some spaghetti if I made it.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just caught off guard a bit. I wasn’t aware you knew how to make any meals,” John apologizes as he walks over to the stove and looks at the sauce.

“It’s just spaghetti, not rocket science,” Sherlock pouts slightly.

John moves to the silverware drawer and pulls out a spoon before moving back to the sauce pan. He dips it in and is aware of Sherlock’s eyes on him as he blows gently on it before placing it in his mouth so it won’t burn him.

“Showoff,” Sherlock grumbles while trying to hide a smirk and John outright smiles.

“Could use a bit more basil,” he says helpfully before stepping away and placing the spoon in the sink.

“Yes, thank you; if I wanted your input I would ask for it,” the younger man sneers.

John shakes his head and rolls his eyes as he walks back in to the front room to await the food being ready.

Sherlock glances over his right shoulder to make sure he’s gone before grabbing the basil and adding a bit more to the mix.

\---

The third round of cussing for the day shouldn’t catch John so off guard, but it does.

“Goddamit!”

John breathes heavily out through his nose and looks at the clock: 4:30pm. He calmly closes his book and places it on the arm of his chair as he slowly rises and makes his way, once again, to the kitchen.

The sight is very familiar. Much like this morning, there are two cups of tea on the table and Sherlock standing near them looking very much like he’s trying not to let on just how much pain he’s actually in.

“No way,” John says with a shake of his head.

“What?” Sherlock asks defensively.

“The smartest man in the world and you’ve burnt your tongue three times in one day?” He tries to hide the smile, he really does, but it doesn’t work.

“It’s not _that_ funny,” he says, offended.

John can’t help the laugh that escapes because of the words accompanied by that face.

“John!” It comes out almost as an entreaty.

“I’m sorry,” he says on a chuckle, but then looks at Sherlock’s pouting face again and sobers a bit to say honestly, “Hey, I really am.”

Sherlock grunts noncommittally, reaching out to swirl one of the cups of tea to watch the steam rise and surmising that it’s still a bit warm to drink _that_ way, instead.

“Is that one mine?” John asks gently, pointing to the cup not in Sherlock’s grasp. Sherlock nods without looking up. John grabs his cup and blows on it, “So what’s with the second attempt at the tea then?”

“I wanted to prove I could do it correctly.”

John’s lips pull down at the corners in an appraising way as he nods his head a few times. He blows on the liquid once more before taking a tentative sip. The tea is the proper temperature now, but still a bit bitter.

He smooths his face in to one of gratitude as he looks up in to Sherlock’s surprisingly hopeful, but weary, gaze, “It’s good.”

“Not too bitter?”

“Nope,” he lies smoothly, taking another sip to prove it, “Thank you.”

Sherlock smiles slightly before hiding his mouth behind the rim of his cup as he drinks.

John isn’t entirely certain where this sudden motivation for Sherlock to do nice things for him came from, but if he had to hazard a guess he might say that their most recent case resonated with him a bit more than he let on originally. The middle-aged man – Clark – had committed suicide because he felt underappreciated and as though no one cared about him. And here Sherlock was today, showing John – in his own misguided, clumsy way – that he appreciates him. A warmth ignites John’s stomach at the thought.

“What do you say I order us some Chinese?” John asks, placing his tea onto the table for a moment.

“I could make us something if you’d like,” Sherlock offers freely.

“More Tesco spaghetti?” John goads with a good-natured smile, it only growing as Sherlock looks a bit flustered, “No, I’d like to thank you for all your hard work today.”

“I didn’t do any work today,” Sherlock negates.

“The tea and spaghetti weren’t easy for you, and I appreciate the effort,” John says and Sherlock flushes beyond his control, “Honestly, this was good today.”

When the food arrives, Sherlock barely notices as he’s caught up in a show about an Egyptian excavation and mummy examinations. It’s a show that John had seen advertised earlier in the day and suggested they watch because he knows of Sherlock’s intense interest in the subject.

John spoons out portions on to plates – lo mein for himself and mei fun for Sherlock – and places them on the coffee table in front of Sherlock before going back in to the kitchen to grab them two glasses of water. By the time he returns, Sherlock has begun eating, but he’s eating _John’s_ food.

“You _hate_ lo mein,” John states accusingly as he places the waters down.

Sherlock looks down at the plate in his hands for the first time. He had been so engrossed in the show that he didn’t even look down to see which plate he was grabbing.

“Sorry,” he says, looking confused at the plate before exchanging it for the proper one as John sits down.

“How did you not notice? You ate quite a bit of it.”

Sherlock shrugs, not looking at John, “I may have lost all sense of taste at some point today.”

John laughs aloud and Sherlock quirks the corner of his mouth good naturedly.

Once they finish dinner, John disappears in to the kitchen to make them both a cup of tea. When John hands him his cup, he eyes it wearily.

“It’s alright to drink it; it won’t burn you this time,” John assures him.

Sherlock cautiously takes a drink anyway and sighs when John proves himself to be right.

“Well, that settles it then,” Sherlock announces as he lowers the cup to his knee for a moment.

“What’s that?” John asks.

“You will continue making the tea all of the time,” he states matter-of-factly.

“What? All it takes is a bit of practice and patience, you lazy sod!”

Sherlock waves his hand, clearly stating _That is hardly of import_ before saying, “No no, I can hardly be without one of my senses for an extended period of time, so it’ll have to be this way.”

As John opens his mouth to supply an angry rebuttal, Sherlock continues after having taken another drink, “You didn’t add enough sugar this time.”

“I thought you couldn’t taste anything,” he grits out.

“Just because I can’t taste it doesn’t mean I don’t know.”

John has to remind himself of the thoughtful things Sherlock did for him today – that the law-abiding world needs this man – so that he doesn’t commit a murder even Sherlock Holmes would be hard-pressed to figure out.


	2. Smell

Sherlock had approximately three seconds of warning before the experiment exploded in his face – literally – and he ended up spending all of them thinking “Oh, Jesus Christ” in a resigned fashion. He did not think to move until after it had happened, and in fact had barely had the forethought to close his eyes in time.

He makes his way immediately to the kitchen sink to rinse off the liquid and all seems to be well…except for the burning sensation in his nose.

The explosion brings John downstairs, pulling on a jumper as he moves.

“Sherlock, what happened?”

Sherlock turns around calmly, embarrassed by his own error in judgement, as he wipes his face with a nearby towel that he belatedly hopes is clean.

“Bit of a miscalculation, all is well,” he assures, tossing the towel back on to the counter before making his way to his microscope to focus on another of his projects.

“Your bit of a miscalculation is still all over the table,” John grumps while moving to the stove, grabbing a pan as he does.

Sherlock merely hums in acknowledgement but makes no move to clean it up, pretending to be lost in the new experiment until he actually gets lost in it. He is marginally aware of John cooking himself some breakfast, eating, and then leaving for work, but it’s not until he looks to his right that he realizes something is amiss.

On a plate situated on a hard-to-come-by-at-the-moment small space of clean table sits his customary piece of buttered toast and two slices of bacon.

He looks back through the morning but cannot recall smelling bacon at all. He takes a bite from one of the pieces to test it; it’s real. He can remember John grabbing the pan, but then he focused on the new experiment and…

Oh, God. Oh no.

Sherlock pushes his chair from the table in alarm, frantically looking for anything with a strong scent that he can use to test his theory.

Silverware? No. Glass of water? No. Oh, jar of eyeballs in the microwave! While Sherlock has a penchant for pretending that the random body parts in the flat don’t have smells, he is more than aware that they do.

He moves swiftly to the microwave and grabs them, opening the lid and breathing deep. Nothing. No formaldehyde, no underlying human odor, nothing. He seals the jar and replaces it before moving to the living area. He grabs a candle but is unable to discern if it’s the “Fall” one or the “Apple Pie” one.

He replaces it harshly back on the desk, as though him not being able to perceive its smell means its glass is now unbreakable. His eyes rove angrily over the flat before landing on the open front door. His anger deflates with a large exhale as a new, disturbing thought hits him.

He practically runs up the short flight of stairs to John’s room as he fights his racing heart. He opens the door and stops dead, inhaling deep once, three times…but still nothing. He can’t smell John.

Sherlock closes his eyes and is hit with wave upon wave of visions from the past. Himself before he knew John, roaming the streets for his next fix. Himself after he faked his death jumping from St. Bart’s and needing to run around the continent to dismantle Moriarty’s web and save John. Himself, leaving John’s wedding early and coming back to an empty flat, now devoid of what made it finally feel like a home for the first time.

His eyes snap open in fear, amazed at the effect that the loss of scent can have on his mind. Of all the senses, Sherlock had always placed it as the least important among its fellows, but he was wrong. Clearly. With one last analyzing look to assure himself that John still resides here, he performs a curt nod and goes back to the main flat, closing the door behind him.

He spends the rest of the afternoon being distracted by experiments, but being drawn from them suddenly in fits of panic as he can’t smell John and forgets that it’s just his own loss leading him to believe that John has left.

Finally, mid-afternoon, Sherlock goes back up to John’s room and rummages through his closet until he finds a box of his military memorabilia. He knows exactly where the box is hidden because Sherlock searched John’s room extensively multiple times when John hid his cigarettes from him all those years ago. He sits on the floor in front of the closet, cradling the box on top of his crossed legs. He opens the lid and releases a shuddering breath to see the same mementos from before, all there, confirming that this is real. He sifts through the contents until he finds the tags toward the bottom of the box and holds them gratefully in his right hand.

Throughout the rest of the day, whenever Sherlock begins to forget, he looks at the round tags in his hand and whispers, “John is real.” When John returns home, Sherlock moves the tags to his pocket to avoid questions, and because John’s presence is proof enough that he is there.

**Murder in an alley off of Weymouth Street. Look for the cop cars. –GL**

Sherlock receives the text from Lestrade around 8pm that evening and is immediately on the move.

“Come on, John; we’ve got a case.”

Without question, John trades his book for his coat and follows the detective out the door without complaint, a thrill of adrenaline running through him.

“What’s the case?” John asks him once they’re in the cab.

“All Lestrade said is that there’s been a murder in an alley. I’ve got it narrowed down to 22 options at the moment.”

Sherlock misses the amused smile as his attention is turned to the window, his hand subconsciously finding the dog tags in his right trouser pocket through the fabric and running a thumb over them.

“12 options,” Sherlock amends when they step out of the car and see the body for the first time. It’s a male in his early 30s, dressed well in a fine suit that is blemished by the ground as well as the knife puncture near his left ribs.

“Cameron Hilston,” Lestrade begins as Sherlock circles the body, “successful businessman killed about three hours ago.”

“And you are thinking…?” Sherlock asks the leading question though his eyes never leave the body. John sees him mouth a quiet “Seven options.”

“Well, his wallet and jewelry,” he says, gesturing to the man’s gold wedding ring, “are still on his person, so not a mugging.”

“Yes, brilliant,” Sherlock belittles.

John and Lestrade both sigh heavily before Lestrade continues, “Knife wound up close shows trust in the victim for the killer. We’ve done a bit of basic research, and apparently this man’s business partner stood a lot to gain if he was out of the way; clients and the like.”

Sherlock’s brow furrows as he deduces the body thoroughly: fine but ruffled suit, hair looks as though a hand was run through it, one side of the shirt untucked.

“This man was having an affair,” he says confidently as he stands, “his wife discovered it, followed him where he had met with the mistress, then cornered him in the alley and killed him.”

While he says the words with authority, he feels a bit off center without his sense of smell. Would it help to have it? Why would it help? Why would it change anything? But he’s aggravated by the loss regardless. John notices that he’s a bit testier than usual, which is really saying something, and is eyeing him suspiciously.

“Huh,” Greg says, thrown by the answer and not seeming convinced, “We’ll look in to that. Either way, we’ve got both his wife and partner coming in for questioning shortly.”

“We’ll meet you at Scotland Yard,” Sherlock agrees, not caring that he hasn’t actually been invited.

“Sherlock, a word?” John asks, nodding his head over to the alley entrance.

“What?” Sherlock asks testily as they come to a halt away from everyone else.

“Are you…alright?” He asks quietly with genuine concern.

“What? Yes, I’m fine,” Sherlock tries to brush off the concern.

“You don’t seem fine; you’re acting like a bit of a twat.”

“According to you I’m _always_ acting like a bit of a twat,” he spits back.

“And now you’re deflecting. That deduction wasn’t quite on par with your others; honestly, are you feeling alright?”

The authentic concern in John’s eyes melts Sherlock both mentally and physically. With a heavy sigh, he ducks his head.

“I can’t smell anything,” he whispers without looking John in the eye.

John is taken back by the statement, random as it sounds, “What do you mean you can’t smell anything?”

Sherlock glares at John from under his lashes and hisses, “I mean I _can’t smell anything_. Jesus!”

“Alright alright, calm down. When did this start?”

“The experiment that exploded this morning had gotten on my face and burned my nose. There’s nothing else it could be that caused this.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t notice until you left for work, and then it didn’t really come up in conversation.”

“So when I asked you how your day was and what you did, you didn’t think you could appropriately throw it in to _that_ conversation?” He asks sarcastically.

“John,” it comes out as a bit of a plea for him to be nice, not that Sherlock would ever admit it.

“Right,” he focuses on the case again, “so why is your loss of smell shoving a stick up your arse?”

“Not always very delicate, are you? Aren’t you supposed to have good bedside manner as a doctor?”

“Bedside manner is different for each patient, you just happen to respond well to directness,” John smirks.

Sherlock tilts his head to the side and makes a _‘Well I mean you have a point’_ face before he looks John in the eye again and shakes his head, “I don’t know why it’s throwing me off as it doesn’t seem important, especially in this case. However, it’s as though I’ve lost my equilibrium with the loss of one of my senses,” he admits.

John nods in understanding, “It’s common. Let’s leave the rest of the investigation to Scotland Yard tonight,” Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but John raises a hand to silence him and continues on, “an accident like yours means your sense of smell will most likely be back tomorrow. Let them do their job until you can piece yourself back together.”

Sherlock looks angrily off to the side, just shy of pouting. He knows John is right, that this is best all around, but solving crimes is what he does.

“You’ve already solved it,” John continues quietly, as if he’s the mind reader for once, “let them tie up the loose ends.”

Sherlock nods reluctantly, still feeling disgruntled by his limitation, and they make their way to Lestrade to update him. When they get home, Sherlock immediately sits on the couch and retreats in to his Mind Palace. He’s pulled out only once that night by John’s hand on his shoulder, offering him a cup of tea when their eyes meet. Sherlock smiles slightly and takes it, grateful for his friend’s lack of judgement and exceptional level of care. Without a word, John makes his way upstairs to sleep – grateful that tomorrow is Saturday – and Sherlock settles back in to think after reaching in to his pocket: a cup of tea in one hand and John’s tags clasped tightly in the other.

Sherlock is aware that John is awake by the sounds he’s making in the kitchen and stealthily replaces the tags before he can be caught with them. While they’ve never discussed it, Sherlock feels like this would fall under the category of Not Good for multiple reasons, and he doesn’t really feel like exposing his thought process and his vulnerability of being so dependent on the other man.

His eyes snap open suddenly at the realization that he’s not only been hearing the sound of cooking, but smelling it, as well. Bacon, eggs, and toast. It isn’t often that John makes this breakfast, much less two mornings in a row; it takes too much time and is more expensive than his typical cold cereal. He’s doing it to test Sherlock’s sense of smell, and Sherlock feels his stomach warm at the thought.

“Smells good,” Sherlock catches John off guard, having snuck up on him.

John turns to see the other man leaning against the doorway with a content smile on his face. He smiles genuinely in return, “It better; it was bloody expensive,” then turns back to the pan.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Sherlock says a bit quietly, moving to his seat at the table.

John doesn’t turn from the pan this time as he replies quietly, “I know.”

They exist in silence, content just to be near each other, until John finishes cooking and draws up two plates. He places Sherlock’s buttered toast and two pieces of bacon in front of him before sitting down with his own plate which includes eggs on top of that.

“You _will_ eat it,” John says, not looking at Sherlock until after he’s said the words.

Sherlock performs a suffering sigh before grabbing a piece of bacon. They eat in silence, John reading the paper and Sherlock thinking, until a text message sounds.

Sherlock moves to the living area and grabs his phone off the coffee table.

**Your theory isn’t quite adding up. Will you come? –GL**

_Give me 20 minutes. – SH_

“Get dressed, John, we’re needed at New Scotland Yard in 20,” Sherlock says, already moving towards his bedroom to change out of yesterday’s clothes.

“New case?” John calls, standing and placing the plates in the sink.

“Nope, same one,” he calls back, his thoughts on the ineptitude of London’s Finest ringing clearly through the statement. Sherlock moves John’s tags to his new trouser pocket, thinking about how he’ll replace them in their box once John is occupied.

When they arrive at New Scotland Yard, Sherlock is led almost immediately to the interrogation room that holds the wife – Gladys. He deduces her, interrogates her, and begrudgingly admits that Lestrade was right: it doesn’t quite make sense. This crime of passion – as it undoubtedly was – requires…well… _passion_ to commit, and while she is clearly saddened by the murder of her husband, she isn’t quite distraught. She should not only be battling the loss of her other half, but also the agony of his betrayal.

Next he talks to the partner – Jason. He does not seem unmoved by the murder of his partner and friend the way that Sherlock might expect him to if he stood to gain as much from Cameron’s passing as Lestrade had inferred yesterday. In fact, _he_ seems distraught.

Sherlock strides out of the room, quickly going over the data in his head, “I need to see the body,” he demands to Lestrade.

“What? How will that help? You’ve already seen it.”

“I have an idea, but I need to see the body again,” he insists firmly.

Sherlock, John, and Lestrade make their way to the morgue. As soon as Cameron is brought out, Sherlock leans down and sniffs him.

“Yes, just as I thought!” He says triumphantly as he stands again, “The business partner is the murderer after all,” he starts, and when he sees Lestrade opening his mouth to say some form of _‘I told you so’_ he hurries on, “But not for the reason you thought. We were _both_ right.”

“What?” Lestrade asks in shock, mostly thrown by Sherlock admitting he was any sort of correct.

“It was a crime of passion, as I thought it was, but I had the wrong person; it wasn’t the wife who killed him but his lover.”

“Jason?” John asks.

“Was that his name?” Sherlock asks honestly before shaking his head, disregarding the answer as unimportant, “They had been seeing each other for a few years and Cameron kept swearing to leave his wife – oldest story in the book. So last night, after a business dinner and a bit of groping in the alley, Jason, was it?” Sherlock asks John, who nods, “Jason asked Cameron again about leaving his wife. When he was told that there were still no concrete plans he became distraught. He knew Cameron was never going to leave her, and in his mind it was better that no one have him if he couldn’t have him to himself.”

“Really?” Lestrade asks.

“It’s all in the cologne,” Sherlock explains with irritation, “both men favored the same cologne so as not to make the wife suspicious.”

“Brilliant,” John states, as honest as he’s ever been about the praise, “It’s amazing the difference having all of your senses can make.”

“I will never doubt again,” Sherlock smirks, feeling much more himself again.

“What does that…?” John asks.

“Come along, John; home.”

The pair strides away, laughing, leaving an extremely confused Lestrade behind.


	3. Touch

Sherlock bustles around the kitchen efficiently, smoothly as he prepares everything for his newest study (not an experiment, just a learning opportunity). He fills three identical pots with lukewarm water from the sink. He had to buy them new so that he was sure the results wouldn’t be skewed, but he’s positive that John or Mrs. Hudson will be happy to have them as they are of the highest quality.

He places one pot in the pre-heated oven, one on the stove and turns the burner on, then moves to place the last one in the microwave. He pauses here, displeased with himself for not testing that the size was unsuitable for the microwave earlier. He sighs as he removes the other two pots from their heat sources before wracking his brain for a suitable alternative.

He glances around the kitchen swiftly, seeing in to the cupboards without opening them thanks to his eidetic memory. His best option is a large ceramic bowl; as long as it can hold the quart of water it shouldn’t skew the results too terribly…he hopes.

Sherlock fills the delicate bowl and places it in the microwave but doesn’t start it until he’s replaced the other two pots. He stands watching all three critically, taking notes as he waits for each to boil.

He had set the microwave for four minutes, but a mere three minutes later the water is boiling to his satisfaction while neither of the others are doing anything yet. Just as he assumed.

With a cocky smile that the boiling water may not appreciate had it not been inanimate, Sherlock moves to the microwave and opens the door. The plan is to remove it and test the exact temperature on the kitchen table before it cools down too much. He’s half-lost in his Mind Palace, cataloguing, when he reaches in and grabs the ceramic bowl with his bare hands.

It takes a good 20 seconds for Sherlock’s brilliant mind to come back online after whiting out from the unexpected pain. When it does, he throws the bowl as far from him as possible, vaguely registering it shattering near the doorway to the living area. He looks at his hands as though they’ve betrayed him, taking in the redness and the blisters that are already starting to appear. Then there is blackness as he loses consciousness, remembering nothing more.

\---

There’s a continuous, annoying beeping that drags him back to wakefulness.

“Turn the alarm off, John,” Sherlock grumbles quietly, not opening his eyes as he turns his face to the right, away from the sound.

“Not an alarm, Sherlock,” John tells him, sounding amused.

Sherlock grunts in confusion, peeling his eyes open slowly to meet John’s eyes. John is sitting in a chair next to the bed, and one deep inhalation confirms his growing suspicions.

“Hospital,” he spits disdainfully, still quiet due to his dry throat. He turns on to his back as he wakes more fully and begins to take stock of his body and what landed him here this time. As far as he can surmise, it’s only his hands that feel any form of significant pain. He sighs in understanding, “The water.”

“Yeah, the _water_ , you daft arse,” John chides lightly but clearly honestly, “The _hell_ do you think you were doing?”

“I was merely expanding my knowledge base by experimenting which method leads to water boiling the fastest and how long each takes.”

“You couldn’t just figure that out? _I_ can figure that out without having to actually test it,” he goads.

“Obviously I knew which order they would boil in, but I was learning, because real brains can’t just sit stagnant never learning anything new.”

“Real brains don’t forget things they learned in primary school leading to one needing to relearn them on their own. Stupidly, I might add.”

Sherlock sighs in resignation, “In hindsight, I should have been able to figure out that the bowl would be too warm to touch with my bare hands,” he concedes.

“Figured it out? Sherlock, it’s common sense!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Trivial. Can you raise the bed?”

John rolls his own eyes in turn as he presses the button. Once sitting up, Sherlock looks down at his completely bandaged hands.

“How bad is it?” He asks John, lifting his hands and testing his mobility, wincing at the pain.

“You have extensive second degree burns on both hands. They’re centered around the outside of your palms and the top halves of your fingers,” he explains as he traces the area on his own hands to demonstrate.

Sherlock closes his eyes against a wave of fear and frustration. To distract his mind for a moment, he opens his eyes and asks instead, “Who called the ambulance?”

“Mrs. Hudson. You’re lucky she was home.”

“Of course she did; couldn’t just wait for me to regain consciousness and take a cab in.”

“Bit of a drama queen.”

“Yes she is.”

“I meant you,” he says, smiling fondly.

Sherlock’s mouth drops open in indignation and he turns to glare at John, but upon seeing the tenderness of his smile he can’t help but chuckle, glad to release at least some of the tension that’s been building.

“How long will it take to heal?” Sherlock asks, laying his head back in to the pillow.

“Hard to say with burns, but with the extent of yours they’re saying 2-3 weeks.”

The frustration flares back up with a vengeance, “I won’t be able to use my hands for 2-3 weeks?” He grits out.

John shakes his head slightly, “You’ll slowly regain functionality - they’re not damaged so you can’t, they’re just extremely tender and sensitive - but the real issue is their location. I mean, you burnt the pads of your fingers; they’re going to be angry at you for a while.”

“Well I’m not very pleased with them at the moment, either,” he fumes, ramming his head back in to the pillow forcefully a few times before closing his eyes and turning his head away from his friend.

John sighs and places his right hand on Sherlock’s right forearm, just below the elbow, and begins to run his thumb soothingly over the undamaged skin. Sherlock relaxes a bit, moving smoothly from anger to depression with the ease of an exhale.

“But the work…” he whispers sadly, face still turned away from his only source of comfort.

“We’ll have to make some compromises - the _both_ of us,” John assures, “I want to help you in any way I can, but I still have to work and have time for myself.”

Sherlock nods instead of trying to vocalize anything past the lump of gratitude he suddenly finds in his throat.

John’s hand removes from his arm and his tone lightens as he continues, “You’re lucky that you live with a doctor,” his smile is evident in his tone, “ _If_ you can follow my directions, you’ll be better in no time.”

Sherlock quirks a sad smile, eyes still closed and head still turned away, “Can we go home soon?” He asks quietly.

“Soon,” John assures softly.

\---

Things are not better when they get home. After stopping to pick up the prescription for Silvadene Cream, pain medication, and wrappings for his hands, they attempt to settle in to their new life.

Within half an hour, Sherlock is already frustrated beyond belief and cursing everything.

“Christ! Just put me in a coma for the next two weeks and be done with it!” He exclaims as he throws himself to sitting on the couch from where he had been pacing.

“They’re _just_ your hands!” John shouts back from his chair.

“ _Just_ my hands? Is that supposed to make me feel better?” He sneers.

“You forget I was an army doctor; I’ve seen a hell of a lot worse when it comes to burns. Men who took it a hell of a lot better than you’re taking this!”

“But my _hands_ , John!” He stresses desperately, offering them up as though John hasn’t seen them yet.

“You’re bloody lucky you weren’t burned anywhere else the way you threw that bowl the way you did. Honestly!”

“But the _work_!”

“You are more than your hands, Sherlock!”

He’s thrown off for just a second by that before he bites back, “Well I’m sorry I’m not _injured enough_ for you to feel like it’s worth it to take care of me.”

John looks at him, honest confusion mixing with his rage, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s been less than an hour and you’re already contemplating storming out of here,” he accuses.

“What makes you think that, oh Great Detective?” He mocks.

“You’ve been texting someone, probably Mike to meet you for a pint because I’m being insufferable.”

John laughs humorlessly, “Yeah, you _are_ being insufferable, _as usual_.”

“So go then!” He snarls as though the idea is preferable; as though the thought of John leaving him right now - at all - doesn’t make him want to cry the tears he’s been fighting since waking up in the hospital.

John looks away from Sherlock and closes his eyes as he focuses on breathing. He knows Sherlock is just scared and frustrated at the limitation he’s placed on himself, that he doesn’t mean what he says. After calming down a bit, he steadily stands from his chair and makes his way to Sherlock who watches every step with trepidation. Once in front of him, John grabs his face in his hands and leans down so Sherlock has no choice but to look him in the eyes.

“You are scared,” he states as fact, then continues before Sherlock’s negation can leave his lips, “No, you _are_. But you can’t do this to me; you can’t push me away. You’ll get better and heal and probably not even scar, I promise you, but you have to let me help without trying to assert your independence.”

“You shouldn’t feel as though you have to help me,” Sherlock replies calmly.

“If I feel a need to help, it’s only because you are my friend and I _want_ to help you. Yes?” John’s honest, caring eyes search the depths of Sherlock’s own grateful ones.

“Yes, John,” he agrees softly, then adds for good measure, “I’m sorry.”

John looks shocked at the apology and the lack of sarcasm behind it. He smiles slightly as he lets go of his face, stepping back. As he moves back to his chair he adds, “As for the text messages, I was texting Greg to see if he had any cold - or hot - cases that you can work on from home.”

Sherlock’s eyes brighten and he sits straighter on the couch, “And?”

“He’s bringing over a box later. Apparently he’s had one set aside just in case you became unreasonable and he didn’t immediately have anything to occupy you with.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but he’s clearly pleased with the notion.

“Now, what do you want for dinner? I was thinking of getting Angelo’s takeaway.”

Sherlock knows he can’t handle any silverware or food with his hands bandaged the way they are, and the idea of John feeding him is…well…under other circumstances it might be nice, but for this?

His face closes off and he replies coldly, “I’m not hungry.”

“Sherlock,” John admonishes, not entirely shocked by the denial.

“I hardly ever eat anyway, I’ll be fine,” Sherlock asserts before storming off to his bedroom.

John follows him with a quiet growl in his throat, “You can’t just not eat for 2-3 weeks!”

“Watch me!” Sherlock counters as he swirls back to face the door John is fast approaching.

“I will not watch you waste away because of your stupid pride!”

“Do not treat me like a child!”

“Then don’t _act_ like one!”

They stand feet apart, but their tempers connect them regardless. They’re both breathing heavy as they glare at one another, so caught up in the other that neither hears Mrs. Hudson approach.

“Boys,” she calls from one of the front areas.

“Back here, Mrs. Hudson,” John calls without looking from Sherlock, though both seem to get their breathing under control quickly.

“I know it’s been a bit of a day, dears, but we _do_ have neighbors,” she points out once she’s got them in sight.

“I’m sorry for the noise, but he’s being unreasonable,” John says to her.

“And he’s being controlling,” Sherlock adds.

She places her hands up with palms out, “The both of you are being ridiculous,” she says, and both men look offended before she continues, “Sherlock, John is trying to help you as best he can, but you need to let him,” John looks smug for all of the two seconds it takes her to turn to him, “And you, John,” she says a bit disappointed, “Sherlock is clearly embarrassed and frustrated by the entire thing; you can’t just push him in to accepting such a drastic change right away.”

John glances at Sherlock from beneath lowered lashes, expecting him to look vindicated, but instead he just looks incredibly vulnerable. John’s stomach drops.

“Now, if you ask me, it’s probably best if everyone just leaves it for tonight and sleeps on it to get used to the idea,” she looks between the two of them expectantly, but neither can meet her disapproving eyes, “Yes?”

“Yes,” they both mumble in abashed agreement.

“You’re good boys,” she assures gently before exiting to her own flat once more.

The men look at each other shyly, still feeling small after their berating.

“I’m sorry,” John says sincerely, “I know it’s not easy for you. It’s not exactly as easy for me as I thought it’d be either, though.”

Sherlock nods in understanding, “I’m sorry, as well; you’re right: I’m deflecting due to embarrassment and frustration.”

“Understandable,” he says.

They stand in an awkward silence before John clears his throat and moves to head back to the living area.

“John?”

“Yes?” He asks, turning his body half way back to look at Sherlock.

“Would you…I mean…once you’ve ordered your takeaway, would you mind terribly helping me change in to my pajamas?” To his credit he only blushes a little at the thought of John’s hands undressing him, his eyes seeing him.

John looks nervous himself at the thought, not completely certain that he can control himself with a naked Sherlock at his disposal, “Yeah, of course,” he says confidently with little delay so as not to make Sherlock suspicious. He is, after all, happy to help. In _any_ way.

Sherlock nods curtly, “Right.”

John turns again, calling back to him as he walks away, “I _am_ going to order you some food. You don’t have to eat it now, but when you’re ready.”

Sherlock’s stomach twists in gratitude. He’s suddenly positive that everything will be fine, because John will take care of him – _willingly_ take care of him, “Thank you,” he says quietly, just before John is unable to hear it. The older man’s gait stutters a bit before continuing on and Sherlock knows he heard, even if he doesn’t respond.

While John places the order, Sherlock clumsily goes about grabbing a set of pajamas from the drawer, thankful for the large handles that allow his hands to slide up and under so he can use the backs of his fingers to pull it out, his shoulder to push it back in.

He can do this; this is manageable. It’s just going to take more energy is all.

“Already got them laid out?” John asks, working hard to keep his tone normal.

“Slowly figuring out how to work these things,” he jokes with a smirk as he raises his practically mittened hands.

“Quicker learner than me, I can tell you that much.”

“Obvious,” he says with his normal flair, but the tenderness in his eyes gives him away.

After an unawkward pause as they both stare at the pajamas almost in amusement at their predicament, John asks, “Alright, shirt first, then?”

Sherlock merely nods and silently steps closer to John. The mood is suddenly different, shifted in to the charged atmosphere that tends to occur when they remain too close together for too long. John lowers his eyes to the row of buttons on the white shirt as his hands lift to begin undoing them, starting at the top. He doesn’t understand why he’s being so careful with the buttons; the pain is nowhere near them. He also has to actively remind himself not to get lost in the freckles that peak out from between the edges of the shirt. When he reaches the top of Sherlock’s trousers and needs to pull the rest of the shirt from the waist, he apologizes.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock reassures him gently.

John moves his attention to the cufflinks, undoing them to be able to ease the shirt over the dressings easier. Then it’s time to remove the shirt and John takes a moment to assess what the easiest way will be.

“Right arm first, it’s a bit more flexible in the shoulder at the moment,” Sherlock supplies helpfully, once again leading John to question if Sherlock can read minds or if John’s own is merely so easily on display.

“Right,” John agrees before moving in to action.

He grabs the open fabric - being very careful not to touch Sherlock’s skin – and leads it towards his right arm. As John lowers the collar to expose his shoulder, Sherlock naturally moves his arm so it’s arching backwards, allowing the form-fitting shirt room to move. John works the fabric carefully over the dressing until he can help assist Sherlock with removing his elbow from the confines. It’s all downhill from there; easy as pie.

Sherlock takes the opportunity of freedom to properly roll his shoulders and twist his torso a bit as John moves to place the button-down in the hamper. As he moves back to Sherlock and the bed he notices Sherlock’s calculating gaze on him and is determined not to give any of his longing away.

When John takes up the soft, worn grey t-shirt, Sherlock does not hesitate to raise his arms above his head in one of the most trusting gestures John has ever seen the man make. John can’t help but let his eyes travel over the lean form: one whose muscles were earned from chasing down criminals versus visits to the gym, yet still clearly displays ribs from poor dietary habits. John’s eyes turn pained when they settle on the scar from the bullet wound inflicted by Mary. What a fiasco that had been. The reminder simply serves to make him happier than ever to be back at Baker Street with Sherlock, where he belongs.

Then he makes the mistake of looking at Sherlock’s face again. He’s wearing a smug smirk, as if he knew John would accept the opportunity to check him out if given the chance.

John glares, slightly less intimidating for the blush he’s also sporting, “You need to eat more,” he commands lightly.

“So you’ve said, doctor,” Sherlock smirks. Cocky bastard.

John steps forward, needing to get closer than first anticipated to be able to reach up to his hands without causing discomfort to the other man. He gently guides the hands through their openings before lowering the rest of the t-shirt at a steady pace. Sherlock lowers his arms as John reaches his trousers, then John focuses on smoothing out the bunches so it lies comfortably.

“Good?” John asks with a critical eye.

“Yes,” Sherlock affirms.

They both know what’s next, and they’re equally eager as well as being eager to _hide_ the fact that they are.

Without looking at Sherlock’s face, John’s focus turns to the trousers with as much clinical care as he can, but he’s never had to undress a patient before, so that façade is quickly laid to rest. He carefully undoes the button and zipper, but the trousers don’t fall to the ground on their own. Of course they don’t. With equal parts trepidation and willingness, John lowers himself to his left knee, pointedly _not_ looking at Sherlock’s groin area as he grips the fabric and gently pulls until it’s safely past his boxer-briefs before wordlessly guiding Sherlock to lifting one foot, then the other.

He stands gracefully, trousers in hand, and moves to place them in the hamper, as well. When he turns back, he can hardly reconcile bespoke suit Sherlock with the version before him now: pajama shirt, boxer-briefs, and an embarrassed air about him.

John moves swiftly to the bed to grab the pajama bottoms before resuming his place on the floor and performing a reversed version of what he just did. When the bottoms are set, he checks to make sure the seams are straight so that they’re comfortable before looking at Sherlock’s face for the first time in what feels like hours.

“Good?” John asks softly, feeling like his entire heart’s desire is laid bare for the detective to see.

“Yes,” he affirms just as before, but the gentleness in the word almost proves that he has seen John’s thoughts and hopes and desires and would like to give them to him – give him everything he ever requests again.

Just as John realizes that his hands have not left Sherlock’s hips and neither of them has taken a single step away from each other, the doorbell rings and the moments – every last one of them – are gone.

Over the next weeks Sherlock heals and they bicker as usual, and above all they pretend to forget – forget that in one small moment their whole world could have changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like this one, unlike most of the others, could have gone on forever. This could easily have been a chaptered story all its own, but c'est la vie.


	4. Sound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bolded words are what's written down instead of spoken.
> 
> Italics are...the new form of communication.

Something is wrong. John isn’t sure what it is, but his sidekick senses are tingling as he stands guard over Sherlock who is kneeling next to the dead body.

“No, it doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock mutters in frustration as he pushes up off the ground with his hands that healed months ago.

“What?” John asks.

“It’s a _cadaver_ ,” Sherlock says as his eyes scan the surrounding buildings, looking for a sign.

“It’s…of course it is,” John says in confusion.

“An _old_ one,” he stresses, “she’s been dead probably a week or more.”

“But that’s not possible,” John shakes his head, his sense of foreboding increasing as he too begins to eye the buildings around them with suspicion.

“Unless…” Sherlock trails off, sounding as though he’s spotted something. He begins to move towards an alley about 20 feet away and John makes to follow him, “No,” Sherlock holds a hand out to stop him, “stay here.”

“I’m not just letting you walk in to an alley by yourself,” he lets the words clearly say how idiotic of a plan that is.

Sherlock finally turns and locks eyes with him, and John is caught off guard by the concern within them, “Stay here. Please.”

John grits his teeth in frustration at the request, pleading with his own eyes for Sherlock not to make him do this. Before Sherlock can abide the plea or John can speak, Sherlock turns and makes his way swiftly to the alley. John curses under his breath, making to follow him but then stopping, remembering that look. Instead he paces, eyes not leaving the entrance of the alley as his unease continues to grow.

The force of the sudden explosion knocks John off of his feet, still near the cadaver. He’s dazed but unharmed, so once he gathers his wits again he rushes to the alley, screaming for Sherlock.

The destruction is not as extensive as he was imagining it would be. It appears that a single bomb went off near the middle of the alley, and Sherlock is lying on his back closer to the entrance.

“Sherlock,” John whispers in shock and worry, the wind being knocked out of him again from the mere sight of him: clothes a bit singed and blood coming out of at least one of his ears, which is, of course, a universal sign for Not Good.

He rushes to him, staggering a bit through the rubble and kneels next to him, searching for a pulse and crouching close to his mouth to look and feel for signs of breathing. He finds a faint but rapid pulse and shallow, even breathing. He sighs in relief and fights the tears as he pulls his mobile from his pocket to dial emergency.

Once the call has been placed, John stays vigilant, crouched over his friend as he does a secondary assessment. He doesn’t appear to have any major bleeding, but John pushes aside the coat and unselfconsciously runs his hands down Sherlock’s torso that he became so familiar with while the man’s hands were injured.

“John,” Sherlock whispers.

John looks at his face in surprise, hands pausing on his chest where they lie, but is able to quickly assess that Sherlock is still unconscious. Despite the dangerous situation they find themselves in, John performs a solitary chuckle and quirks his mouth in an affectionate smile.

“I’m here,” he says in case the other man can hear him on some level, “I’m not going anywhere.”

\---

This time it’s the smell that wakes him.

He groans at the smell of cleaner and antibiotics, and the sound reverberates eerily inside his skull.

He slowly blinks his eyes open in confusion and then turns to the left to look at the machines that are surely there, but they aren’t making noise this time around. Why aren’t they? He was under the impression that they don’t turn off. Then he feels movement on his right bicep that makes him jump slightly before turning his head towards the feeling, finding John’s hand there.

His eyes portray his confusion as he glances from the hand to John’s face, “John?” The name echoes in his mind the same as the groan.

John smiles reassuringly and says something, but no sound leaves him. Sherlock’s confusion seeps deeper in to his psyche as he tries to comprehend what’s wrong with the other man.

John’s smile fades and he says, “Sherlock?” the other man can recognize the familiar movement on his lips, but still no sound.

The pieces begin to fit together, but Sherlock is experiencing an intense sense of denial that he has never felt regarding anything before. He looks around the room in panic, cataloguing how many things are making sound: a sink to the left dripping slowly in the basin, a clock on the far wall in front of him, the open window allowing the shades to flutter, the machines to his left are beeping, he just knows it, but he can’t _hear_ it - he can’t hear _any_ of it.

“Oh my God, I’m deaf,” he says out of reflex, wincing now at the slight pain in his ears that accompanies the echo.

John’s hands are on his face, forcing Sherlock’s frightened eyes to meet his own frightened gaze, “You can’t hear me?”

“I can’t read lips, John!” He says loudly, angrily in frustration.

“Shhh,” John tells him, “You’re talking really loudly.”

“What?” Sherlock asks just as loud, just as angry.

John removes his left hand from Sherlock’s face and places his pointer finger against his own lips in the universal sign for ‘quiet’.

“Are we in danger?” Sherlock whispers, only vaguely registering that whispering doesn’t cause a painful echo, just a low one, as his eyes dance around the room in search of the threat.

John’s left hand returns to his face, drawing Sherlock’s attention back to him. John merely shakes his head with what is surely meant to be a reassuring smile but instead looks more like he’s trying to be comforting while he freaks out on the inside himself.

John finally stands from his chair and releases Sherlock’s face, “Wait,” John tells him, while giving him the ‘wait’ finger signal, then opens both hands and signals for him to stay in the bed, “Stay.”

Sherlock swallows his fear and nods once to acknowledge that he understands. He watches John walk out the door, his eyes never leaving it while he awaits his return.

John comes back in to the room a couple of minutes later with what appears to be a doctor in tow, as well as a legal pad in his hands.

The doctor takes the legal pad and writes a note on it.

 **“Hello, Sherlock. I’m Dr. Stanton. The explosion ruptured both of your eardrums which is what caused the loss of hearing.”** He shows it to Sherlock.

“Is the hearing loss permanent?” He asks calmly at a reasonable volume, forcing himself to stay in his investigative mindset to get all of the facts. _Then_ he can freak out.

**“Hearing will typically restore itself during or after the healing process.”**

“And how long does the healing process typically take?”

**“6-8 weeks.”**

Sherlock growls in discontent as he closes his eyes for a moment to gather himself.

“Is there any way to speed it up?”

**“No, but I will give you some antibiotics to fight off any possible infection that might occur.”**

“Kind of you,” he says sarcastically with a scowl.

“Sherlock,” John admonishes out of habit. Sherlock sees it and knows immediately that he’s been scolded because it is a familiar look of exasperation.

Sherlock chuckles self-pityingly, “Now _that_ I understood without needing to hear it.”

John rolls his eyes and fights a smirk.

Under an hour later they’re allowed to leave the hospital, prescription for an antibiotic in hand as well as stern instructions to see their GP in a few days. Seeing as John is the only GP that Sherlock will agree to let examine him, this isn’t an issue.

\---

It’s already 9pm by the time they make it home, but John makes them tea anyway. They sit in their chairs facing each other, just staring at the other as though they’ll develop the ability to read each other’s minds if they try hard enough.

“Stop looking at me like I’m broken,” Sherlock tells him.

John pulls out his pen and writes on the pad of paper, **“I’m not because you’re not.”**

“Eloquent as always, John.”

John makes a humorously disgruntled face which only increases Sherlock’s amusement, **“Are you doing okay? Do you need anything?”**

Sherlock considers carefully before responding, “It’s very frustrating - not being able to hear the things around me - but I’m still able to do everything myself, unlike when I burned my hands. So this is…okay.”

**“Your hearing will come back. It won’t be like this forever.”**

Sherlock reads the words and fights back the wave of fear that that might not be true. What if this _is_ how things are for the rest of his life? Instead of dealing with the thought, he responds testily.

“No, I changed my mind. This,” he gestures to the pad of paper in John’s hands, “is infuriating and unmanageable.”

John looks grumpy, **“This is the best way.”**

“No, I can’t accept that to be true. There _has_ to be something better.”

John stares at him, puckering his lips in outrage but obviously trying to control his temper. After all, he’s dealt with Sherlock becoming unbiasedly defensive when he lost his senses before, so it’s nothing new or surprising. He quickly downs the rest of his tea and stands, taking the cup to the sink. He rinses it out but leaves it in the sink to wash tomorrow before making his way back to the living area. Sherlock has not moved, but his eyes have tracked every single one of John’s movements, waiting for him to explode.

John picks up the legal pad but does not sit, **“Fine, genius; you think of a better way for us to communicate and I’ll go to bed.”**

“ _I’m_ communicating just fine,” he stresses crossly.

John’s eyes flash dangerously at the implication, **“God help us if you’re the better communicator.”**

His jaw drops in indignation, “I’m _very_ articulate!”

 **“Articulation and communication are not the same thing.”** He writes before dropping the pad and pen to the chair and walking away to get ready for bed. Sherlock makes no move to stop him.

Once changed and calmed down a bit - reminding himself that this is the defensive mode Sherlock gets in to when he’s worried that his current state of limitation will become the norm - he returns to the living area to find Sherlock in the exact same spot and position as he left him 15 minutes prior.

John picks up the paper, **“Do you want me to call in to work tomorrow and ask for a few days off?”**

Sherlock does honestly seem to consider it but then dismisses the offer with a wave of his hand, “Unnecessary. As I stated previously, I am able to do all the same things, I’m just easier to be snuck up on.”

That brings a previously unconsidered concern to light, **“You’ll stay in the flat while I’m gone?”**

He sighs, “If there are no cases.”

**“No, Sherlock. No cases without me or until “we” figure out a better way to communicate.”**

“Don’t be tedious, John, I can still solve crimes!”

**“But you could also be injured further or abducted.”**

“John…” he says as though he’s being very tedious indeed.

**“Please, Sherlock. For me. Stay inside while I’m gone.”**

Sherlock’s eyes soften, understanding how John worries - how badly Sherlock must have scared him today - and nods, “Agreed, as long as you will consider letting me still work on cases while you are present.”

John smiles, **“Agreed.”**

“Goodnight, John.”

**“Goodnight, Sherlock.”**

**\---**

The nighttime is more difficult for Sherlock than he originally anticipated. It’s not that quiet is anything he’s unaccustomed to - which is what led him to foolishly think that this would all be fine - it’s that the oppressive silence of having lost his hearing is so intense. When he enters his Mind Palace to think of new communication options, he finds himself as scared that John is not real as when he lost his sense of smell. The realization is both unexpected and loathsome.

Instead of retreating to his Mind Palace to think, he makes the conscious decision to stay aware of his surroundings. It doesn’t allow him to think as well or as quickly because he keeps getting distracted by the most random of things (like where exactly did the marks on their desk legs come from, for example?), but it’s worth it for the sense of peace.

By morning’s light, Sherlock has made two decisions: the first is that he will commandeer John’s dog tags from their box again when John has left for work, and the second is how he and John can communicate easier.

John comes down in the morning, dressed for work, and stops in his tracks to see breakfast already sitting on the table for him. He reaches for the pad of paper and pen that are sitting next to the plate.

**“You made breakfast?”**

“I’ve made breakfast before,” he says indignantly.

**“No you haven’t.”**

“Well I’ve made you tea.”

 **“Not actually a food, Sherlock,”** he smiles and then adds, **“It’s not poisoned is it?”**

“The incident to which you are referring was a harmless experiment for which there is no need to repeat at the moment.”

 **“So that’s a no then?”** John is still smiling.

“That’s a no,” Sherlock confirms, a smile of his own appearing on his face.

\---

When John leaves for work, Sherlock waits an hour before making his way up to his room to find the box, now feeling secure that John will not be back until after work. The sense of relief that washes through him when he wraps his right hand around the tags is so overwhelming that he closes his eyes.

He knows John is real – he _just_ walked out the door – so why in God’s name is he so affected by the tags right now this very moment?

Sherlock turns his head to the side, eyes closing and face scrunching in pain as he swears to himself that emotions are the worst thing imaginable. He was right to avoid having them for so long.

With a large exhale, he replaces the box exactly as he found it and leaves the flat to go do some shopping. Just as he’s about to walk out onto the street, the promise he made to John not to leave the flat echoes in his mind. He briefly considers ignoring it and going out anyway – he’s an adult, dammit! – but instead goes to request Mrs. Hudson’s company. She has an extremely difficult time remembering that Sherlock can’t hear her, and he doesn’t mind not reminding her (though he does try a few times). In truth, he actually likes to watch her face light up as she rambles on about things that he would never stand to let her say in his presence if he could hear them.

Once back, Sherlock spends the rest of the day studying the new books as he waits for John to come home.

Sherlock is so engrossed in them, in fact, that he doesn’t register that John has been home long enough to have written him a note.

 **“What are you doing?”** John asks after gaining Sherlock’s attention.

“Studying our new form of communication.”

 **“Sign language? We’re going to learn sign language?”** John asks, face incredulous.

“Better than writing,” he explains with a shrug.

 **“Writing’s a hell of a lot simpler than learning an entirely new language,”** he insists.

“Not once we’ve mastered it. I’ve already got most of the basics down, and you’re smart enough to catch on quick enough.”

John is thrown off by the praise of his intelligence, but then something registers about the situation, **“We don’t own books on sign language.”**

Sherlock gives him a look that clearly states he’s thinking of taking the compliment to his intelligence back, “We do now; I bought these today.”

John’s eyes harden, his jaw clenching, **“I asked you not to leave.”**

“I took Mrs. Hudson with me,” he assures, suddenly unaccountably glad that he’s able to say that truthfully, “She seemed rather pleased to yammer on without me telling her to stop being annoying, with the whole not being able to hear her thing and all.”

John can’t help but laugh and smile at the mental picture. Once he stops, he asks, **“Alright, where do we start?”**

Sherlock smiles, excited for the challenge of teaching John and also continuing to learn himself, “Names first.”

 **“Should we use codenames?”** John suggests facetiously.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock admonishes, but his lips twitch up at the right corner of his mouth betraying his (not quite) attempt at belittling.

They sit on the couch facing each other as they begin to learn a new language together. It only takes about a week for them both to become pretty proficient since Sherlock does nothing but practice it all day and then keeps John focused on advancing every evening when he comes home from work.

They settle in to a routine. Sometimes there are curses, threats, or insults hurtled at the other (mostly from John, but Sherlock performs his fair share, of course), but generally there’s laughter and even some tender moments shared between them.

While at home they both vocalize as they sign – even if Sherlock can’t hear the words – to reinforce. When at crime scenes, however, they tend to simply sign to each other in silence and leave John to translate. This is partially so that Sherlock doesn’t insult anyone, but mostly because they just like being able to have their own conversations in front of others that no one else can understand.

It’s selfish, really, how both of them cherish the way that it makes them indispensable to the other: they both need the other for this to work and, for once, absolutely no one is able to take either’s place.

\---

About four weeks in, Sherlock – who has since been granted freedom to leave the flat on his own as long as he turns a tracker on his mobile on – returns home to find a very old looking book sitting on the desk. On its cover rests a note:

 **Sherlock,**  
**I saw this in a shop and it screamed of you to me. I don’t even know if you enjoy Shakespeare, but here’s a collection of his poetry anyway.**  
 **John**

Sherlock places the note to the side before reverently picking up the brown leather book and opening to the front. Published in 1895, making it far from a first edition, the illustrations and slightly worn gilt edges are remarkably beautiful. Without looking from the book, he sits on the couch and begins to read. It’s not until John’s hand lifts his chin to look him in the eye - as has become the accepted way for John to gain his attention - that he even realizes that the other man has returned home.

 _“Found the book, I see,”_ John signs, an uncertain look in his eyes as he takes a few steps back now that he’s got the man’s attention.

Sherlock picks up a random piece of paper from the coffee table, marking his place before signing back, _“It’s wonderful. Thank you,”_ he says sincerely.

John blushes slightly, a bit of his nervousness draining from him, _“I wasn’t certain you would like it. Like my note said: I didn’t even know if you like Shakespeare.”_

_“He was one of my favorites to study in school, and the book itself is a beautiful edition.”_

_“I figured, if nothing else, you’d appreciate the details of the artwork in it.”_

_“I appreciate it for far more than that,”_ Sherlock says honestly, unsure where the boldness comes from.

John flushes again and turns away, trying to make his way to the kitchen to make some tea.

“John,” Sherlock calls after him.

John stops his progress and looks to the left slightly, acknowledging but not facing.

“Why did you buy this for me? It must have cost a fortune.”

John turns towards the kitchen again but does not make to move further away. He looks at his feet and whispers, “I think that possibly, maybe I’ve fallen for you.”

Sherlock doesn’t hear it, of course, but it makes John’s heart race to have finally said it aloud in front of the man. To put voice to the thought that has been steadily building over the last year and a half.

What Sherlock _does_ get when John turns around is: _“It wasn’t that much, actually, and I thought you’d appreciate its beauty,”_ before John turns back to the kitchen and moves to make the tea, not waiting for Sherlock’s reply.

When John is in the next room where he can’t see him, Sherlock signs: _“There’s a chance that I’ve fallen quite hard over you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I think that possibly, maybe I’ve fallen for you  
> Yes, there’s a chance that I’ve fallen quite hard over you"
> 
> is from "Falling In Love At A Coffee Shop" by Landon Pigg and in no way is meant to imply that Sherlock heard John since his line follows that one John quotes…I just…I found it fitting for some reason.


	5. Sight

Another day, another deranged criminal who decides it’s better to run from the Gangliest Consulting Detective. He’s well ahead of said detective, who is in turn a bit ahead of John.

There’s twists and turns, alleys and fences, street lights and moonlight. If one could freeze time to ask all three of these men if they were enjoying themselves, two of them would heartily agree while the criminal performed an undignified squeak. The officers of New Scotland Yard are following yet further behind, but somehow can never seem to keep up.

Another turn, another alley, and then two things happen. First, the killer pulls a cricket bat that he had planted from behind a trash can; second, he uses said bat to hit Sherlock in the face, landing the blow mostly above his eyes but slightly down over his right.

Sherlock drops immediately, losing consciousness. John sees the events unfold but is too far away to stop the attack, instead launching one of his own. With a mighty yell, he throws himself towards the killer’s stomach before he can think of beginning to run again. Once on the ground, John positions them so that he is on top of the other man and begins to absolutely wail on him with his fists. There is no other way to describe it.

“John!” Greg shouts at him after processing what he’s seeing, “John stop!”

John doesn’t stop, doesn’t even hear his friend past the blood rushing in his ears. He knows this man hurt Sherlock and goddammit, that man has been injured enough in the past two years already!

Greg runs to John, crouching down behind him and grabbing him in a bear hug to try to still his arms, “John, stop this!” he commands in to his ear, but he’s still not listening so Greg tries reasoning with him, “I need you to assess Sherlock.”

That does still John’s movements, but he’s still glaring down at the practically unconscious killer below him. Greg moves his arms overtop of John’s to pin them to his sides.

“ _He_ needs you,” Greg adds.

John’s head snaps to the left to look at Sherlock’s body about a foot away. He nods multiple times to wordlessly signal that he understands. Greg slowly backs up and lets go of John’s arms. John sends one last glare to the killer beneath him, unable to still his fist for a final punch directly to his nose. Amidst Greg’s tired, “ _Oi!”_ John stands and moves to Sherlock.

Just as after the explosion six months ago, John leans down to check for pulse and breathing with practiced ease and calmness. He finds both nice and strong and exhales a shaky breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding. He lightly places his left hand on Sherlock’s cheek as his worried gaze looks over the damage done to his face.

“He appears to be stable for now, but we need an ambulance here stat. I have no way of assessing the extent of his head trauma,” he orders without looking from his friend.

“There's already one on the way, should just be a few more minutes,” Greg assures him from nearby, making no move to step closer but watching over the pair with a pained look on his face. He knows now - from simply watching John in this moment - that his recent suspicions are true: John is in love with Sherlock. He believes the feeling is mutual, but he can’t say for certain. He hopes like hell that the two have a chance to figure it out.

John’s left hand moves to lightly trace the bruise that’s already forming on his forehead and just below his right eye. It’s angry and deep, and John can do nothing in this moment but to pray that there is no fracture.

When the ambulance finally arrives, there’s hardly any argument with the paramedics to allow the doctor in to the back of the rig with Sherlock. John allows the paramedics to do their job, but he steadfastly refuses to release Sherlock’s hand.

\---

The coma lasts for two days. Two of the longest days of John’s life, and he was a _soldier_. Mycroft attempts to get John to leave the hospital to change or eat or sleep, but John has no interest in any of it. Later, Greg brings him a bag of his belongings from Baker Street, including a book. John passes the time pretending to read, but more often than not he’ll come out of a daze to find that he’s been staring at Sherlock or the machines, waiting for any change.

It’s around 4am on the second day that John speaks to Sherlock.

“I hope you can bloody well hear me, Sherlock,” he hisses angrily, all of his worry presenting as frustration at the moment, “You can’t keep doing this to yourself…to me,” he takes a deep breath and all of his fight leaves on his exhale, “I…you selfish _bastard_ ,” he whispers with very little heat behind the curse, “You have no idea what you put me through every time you get yourself injured, do you? Would you even care?”

His eyes roam over the bruise, the colors intensifying as it attempts to heal. The scans showed no fracture but quite a bit of swelling of the brain and the optic nerves. That’s good, he knows as a doctor that it is, but he also knows that Sherlock is definitely not out of the woods yet.

“Please, will you just wake up so I can yell at you to your face? The lack of a fight at the words takes all the fun out of it,” he attempts to joke, but his tone is simply too sad to portray it appropriately.

Six hours later, Sherlock _does_ wake.

He groans at the pain in his entire head, minutely moving his head back and forth as though denying the reality.

“Sherlock?” He hears John’s hopeful voice on his right.

“John,” he croaks out, feeling relieved by his presence. Of course he’s here; he’s always here when Sherlock wakes up in hospital, “We have to stop meeting like this,” he adds lightly.

John can’t help a short laugh before agreeing, “Damn right we do.”

“Water?” Sherlock asks after deciding that attempting to smirk is too much effort at the moment.

John fills a nearby cup and carefully assists him. He doesn’t drink much, but it eases the discomfort.

“How’re you feeling?” John asks, sitting back in his chair.

“Like I’ve been hit over the head with a bat.”

“Do you remember that happening or are you just freaky good at comparisons?”

“I remember it. I’m sorry, John, I should have anticipated.”

“There was no way to anticipate that he’d have hidden a cricket bat in an alley, but I appreciate the apology.”

Sherlock opens his eyes slowly, “How long was I out for?”

“Two days completely unresponsive,” John tells him, proud at how steady his voice stays.

Sherlock nods slightly before the pain stops the movement, “And how is my face, is it overly swollen? I can’t seem to open my eyes.”

John’s stomach falls as he stares in to the other man’s blue eyes, “Sherlock…” he starts but can’t bring himself to finish it.

Sherlock hears the hesitation and worry in just his name, “What?” he asks, but when John doesn’t answer he asks louder, “ _What_ , John?”

“Your eyes _are_ open.”

They spend the next couple of hours with doctors and nurses, posing questions and possible ramifications, but what it comes down to is this: the swelling around the optic nerves is most likely the culprit for the loss of sight - possibly with some help from the swelling of the brain though it’s already begun decreasing - and Sherlock should most likely, in theory, regain full sight once the swelling has dissipated.

“You’re telling me that you have no way of telling whether my blindness is permanent?” Sherlock demands angrily, and John doesn’t even have the will to reprimand him for not being polite to those who are only trying to help.

“Eyes are tricky; especially with the swelling that has occurred. It is unfortunately unclear whether this is a temporary or permanent state, but we are optimistic,” the doctor says calmly.

“You can take your optimism and shove it up your…”

“Sherlock!” John shouts, unable to let that one pass.

They hold him for another two days before releasing him. They had wanted three days originally, but once Sherlock slipped in to speaking in pure curses or insults to anyone who wasn’t John, they agreed to let him go early. The pitying looks from the staff that John received on the way out spoke volumes to the level of mistreatment they felt.

\---

John is prepared for Sherlock’s attitude and for the pushing away this time around. They are, unfortunately, used to this type of scenario by now.

“For the love of God, John, I can do it myself!” Sherlock yells at him as he tries to make tea.

“Nothing to do with your sight, you don’t make the tea,” John insists, fighting very hard to remain calm.

“We’ve already been over this: I _have_ made the tea before.”

 _“And proceeded to burn your tongue,”_ he signs silently instead of vocalizing it, not wanting to get Sherlock more riled up than he already is.

Sherlock grits his teeth and his eyes turn absolutely murderous, “Don’t you _dare_ use sign language in front of me,” he growls.

“I’m sorry, it’s become so natural,” he tells him overly sweetly, “If you want to make the tea, I’m not going to stop you. Just be careful, yeah?”

“I’m always…” he starts, but not even he can finish the sentence for all of the lies the statement holds.

“I’ll be in my chair when you’re done,” he says before moving in to the other room to practice his calming breathing.

Sherlock fumbles around the kitchen. He knows the contents of every single cupboard and drawer, but without knowing which one he’s facing, that skill is a bit limited. He makes a lot of noise and almost breaks more than a few pieces of china. When the water boils and Sherlock accidentally touches the outside of the kettle, he yells in outrage more than pain, sending both cups for tea flying as his hand collides with them in his haste to remove it from the heat.

“Dammit!” Sherlock yells, left hand feeling the back of his right hand for any serious injury, but finding none.

John gently places a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, having successfully snuck up on him. Sherlock’s face completely falls as he surrenders to his fear and insecurities. He turns to John and grabs him in a hug, burying his face in John’s hair. For the first time in a long while, Sherlock cries.

John’s heart breaks at the sound and feel, so he pulls the taller man closer to him, wanting to encompass him in safety.

“What if I never see again?” Sherlock whispers brokenly just above John’s left ear.

“Then we’ll adapt, just like we did when you burnt your hands and you lost your hearing,” John assures him.

“I was pretty much guaranteed to get those senses back; it’s…difficult…not knowing if this is forever or not.”

“I know,” John whispers soothingly.

Once Sherlock’s tears dry, he steps out of the comforting embrace reluctantly.

“I’m going to bed,” Sherlock announces neutrally.

“Do you need help finding anything?” John asks carefully, not wanting to cause another meltdown.

“No, I think I can manage,” he says before beginning to make his way towards his room, but stops short in the hallway, “Thank you.”

“Anything you need, I’m here.”

Sherlock nods before finishing the walk to his room, closing the door behind him. John stares at the wood for a long while before cleaning up the mess in the kitchen and retiring to bed himself.

\---

Sherlock does not sleep well. The events of the last few days mixed with the drugs should have made for an easy night’s rest, but it was not to be. Every time he starts to slip in to sleep, John is dying or leaving or - worst of all - being exposed as never having been real, just a figment of his lonely psyche.

John is woken by multiple shouts of his name from downstairs. There are other wordless screams, as well, and his heart falls to realize that he recognizes them: they’re the tortured screams of PTSD. He rushes downstairs to Sherlock’s side without another moment of hesitation.

John pauses a few feet from the bed, knowing that waking Sherlock now could result in violence from the other man.

“John!” Sherlock calls, thrashing his head from side to side.

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” John says gently from his spot.

Sherlock’s face scrunches in confusion as his head stops thrashing, “John!” He says again, almost as a test.

“I’m here, Sherlock,” he assures him just as gently.

Sherlock takes a deep breath in through is nose and appears to relax yet further, “John, please don’t leave. Please?” He begs.

John is under no assumption that Sherlock has woken, merely realizing that the crux of the discontent is apparently that Sherlock thinks he’ll leave. He takes a calculated risk as he steps to the edge of the bed and grabs Sherlock’s right hand in his left, “I won’t go anywhere. I’m right here, Sherlock. Right here.”

Sherlock’s hand tightens on his and he jolts awake, his eyes opening reflexively, “What happened?”

“You had a nightmare,” John informs him, not making any move to retrieve his hand.

Sherlock’s face, what little of it John can decipher by the moonlight and street lamps, flushes slightly, “I’m sorry to have woken you,” he says as he releases John’s hand as if the touch was an imposition.

“It’s fine,” he says, then asks before he’s able to think it through and become embarrassed, “Do you want me to stay?”

“Why would I want that?” Sherlock asks defensively.

John sighs in slight aggravation, “I just know that, sometimes, when I had nightmares it helped to have someone nearby to soothe me.”

“And you think you’d soothe me?” He asks coldly, though he knows it’s true.

John wouldn’t try to hide his cocky smirk even if Sherlock _had_ been able to see him, “Yes, I think that.”

Sherlock is silent for a few moments before he mumbles something about it “being worth a shot” and turning so his back is facing John. John climbs in the bed, lying on his back, and both fall asleep again quickly.

Throughout the night, John runs a hand soothingly through Sherlock’s curls whenever he is awoken by the restless man. After a handful of times, Sherlock makes a sad whining sound in the back of his throat, to which an exhausted John grunts reassuringly in response, moving on to his side and pulling Sherlock’s back flush with his front. Neither one wakes again until morning and they don’t talk about why.

\---

Sherlock had demanded that John go to work and not to baby him. If this was really to be his life, he needed to become accustomed to the flat without use of his sight.

He spends the next two days counting steps and getting to know the feel of various surfaces within the flat. He’s so efficient at it that by the end of the two days he has a complete, detailed map of the flat in his Mind Palace, but it’s a place he dares not go.

Same as with the loss of his senses of smell and hearing, entering his Mind Palace is a sure-fire way for him to believe that John is not real. He hasn’t risked a trip to John’s room to find the dog tags yet because he never seems to know what time it is and is afraid of getting caught.

As for now, however, he’s relatively certain that he has half an hour before John will be home from work, which leaves him plenty of time to investigate. Or he _would_ have plenty of time if what he finds when he enters John’s closet is not distressing and completely unacceptable.

The box has been moved.

Sherlock is _certain_ that he’s searching in the correct spot, dammit! So where is it?!

It’s not until John’s arms are wrapped around his to hold him in place, his mouth firmly telling him to “Stop it and calm down!” that Sherlock truly comprehends that he’s trashed John’s room.

Sherlock does stop quite suddenly, imagining the extent of the damage he’s done in his mind.

“What the fuck, Sherlock?” John demands, letting him go. Sherlock can tell from the body heat and small amount of steps that John only moved about a foot away.

He cannot answer John, can’t confess that the missing box caused his frantic mind to confirm the reality that John had left. Because what would keep him around now that Sherlock is limited and no longer able to solve crimes?

“Who says you can’t? And who bloody says I would _leave_ if you couldn’t?” John asks in confused exasperation. It’s not until then that Sherlock realizes he said the last bit aloud.

“It’s the natural progression,” Sherlock says clinically, composing himself in to the cold machine John has accused him of being in the past, guarding himself from the pain, “You were drawn to share a flat with me because of the adventurous life I could provide. You missed the war and the uncertain scenarios it placed you in, and now that I can no longer go running after criminals with you, you have no reason to stay.”

John is silent as he sorts through the statement, then replies, “Honestly, I couldn’t be more ecstatic that you can’t go running after criminals anymore,” he starts, continuing on past Sherlock’s affronted look, “you’ve gotten yourself in to too much bloody danger the last few times. We’re not invincible, you and I, but you kept playing like you were.”

“But the work…” Sherlock pouts.

John rolls his eyes, “The work is more than chasing people. Most of the work is figuring out a scene, and honestly? This will just make each case a bit more of a challenge for that brilliant mind of yours.”

“But I can’t see the scenes,” he tells John as though he isn’t aware, as though he’s saying it deliberately to hurt him.

“Then I’ll describe them. Anything you need to know, you’ll get the answer from me.”

After a few moments of silence Sherlock says, “You have an awfully high opinion of me.”

“How many steps from the couch to the fridge?” John merely asks as a response.

“27,” he replies automatically.

“Brilliant,” John smiles, “now we just need to build up other skills of yours the way you’ve mapped out the flat.”

Sherlock does feel a bit better at that thought, that is, until John continues speaking, “Now, want to tell me why you ransacked my room while I was away?”

Sherlock hardens again, “I was looking for something.”

“What?”

He debates not telling him, but he knows he must. For John’s plan to work at all, he _needs_ those tags to keep himself grounded while in his Mind Palace, “Promise not to get mad.”

“I can’t do that,” John shakes his head.

“I didn’t mean to make you mad before. At least promise you won’t belittle me.”

“I…why would I ever belittle you?” He asks in honest shock and hurt.

“Just promise,” Sherlock asserts.

“Yeah, that I _can_ do; I won’t belittle you.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath and begins to explain, “I have discovered a bit of a…reliance on your presence throughout the last two years or so. Whenever I lose one of my senses that inhibits my ability to sense your presence when not in full command of my mind, I find it extremely distressing.”

“I’m not getting it,” John states after a bit of a silence, “what does that have to do with you tearing apart my room?”

Sherlock sighs, “Whenever I find myself unable to enter my Mind Palace because I experience a panic attack whenever I do thinking that you’re not real, I find that holding your dog tags in my hand reaffirms your existence to me.”

John’s eyes narrow in confusion, “You think I’m not real?”

“As previously stated, a loss of a sense allows my brain to alter reality while in my Mind Palace and convince me that you are no longer here.”

“And the dog tags help?”

“Obviously,” he sneers, feeling extremely bare before his friend, “You would never leave Baker Street for good without them, and they could never exist if I had made you up as a figment of my imagination.”

John’s lips quirk at that, “I’m too amazing to be real, you had to make me up as an imaginary friend?”

“You said you wouldn’t belittle me,” he accuses, offended.

“I’m not, I swear. It’s just…probably the most flattering thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Sherlock’s brow creases, “I am just _really_ terrible at friendship, aren’t I?”

John can’t help but laugh, “You are, but you’re getting better.”

Sherlock’s lip quirks up at the compliment, “So where did you move the box?”

“I uh…” John clears his throat in embarrassment, “I took it out after your nightmares started; it seemed like the right thing to do, go through those memories and remember what it was like to wake up screaming.”

Sherlock nods sadly, “And where is it?”

“My bedside table.”

“Can I have them? Please?” He pleads soulfully, his right hand facing up in a cupping motion.

“I don’t understand; I’m _here_ , and I will _be_ here.”

“You’ll go to work and I’ll still need to make progress. If I am to remodel my Mind Palace to make it stronger for my new usage, I need that token to remind me.”

John sighs and retrieves them, placing them gently in his hand, “Only when I’m not around.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock affirms pompously, sliding the tags in to his pocket.

 ---

Sherlock spends time learning new things, studying them by sound, touch, and memorization, and John spends time testing him.

John gets him book after book on tape for him to listen to and learn about different types of psychologies and sciences, then has Sherlock explain them to him.

When John cooks, Sherlock sits on the counter next to him the entire time, deducing what he’s adding, which cooking method is being employed, and what the meal will be. He even eats it when it’s done cooking to test the end result.

About three weeks in to this routine, John gets a call.

“John, it’s Greg.”

“No,” John says automatically.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!” he says, offended.

“You were going to say you have a case that you need Sherlock for, and the answer is no.”

Sherlock perks up at this, “John!” he says excitedly.

“Stop it, I’m not fighting the both of you!” John asserts.

“He wants to do it,” Greg says at the same time Sherlock says, “I can do it.”

“He’s _blind_ , Greg,” John spits and they all fall silent.

“Talk it out with him and get back to me,” Greg placates, “These people need Sherlock; you know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t absolutely need him, too.”

“I know. I’ll call you back in a few,” he sighs heavily before hanging up.

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock says as though he’s been told he’s not good enough, “This is what we’ve been working towards.”

“I know,” John sighs again before running a hand through his hair.

“Then what? Do you not think we’re ready?”

“No, it’s not that…I just…” he can’t bring himself to vocalize it.

“What?” Sherlock presses with an edge of discontent.

“What if something else happens to you?”

Sherlock pauses, not having expected that to be the catalyst, “It won’t,” he says with surety.

“How can you say that? It’s not like you _planned_ on getting injured those last times, either.”

“I won’t go chasing after anyone - which we can both agree was the main issue, I think – and you’ll be there watching out for me.”

He says it so simply, like it’s the easiest thing to place all of his trust in John. Maybe for him it is.

 _“I can’t lose you,”_ John signs silently.

_“I’ve asked you once not to sign while I can’t see it. Please use your words.”_

“I can’t lose you,” John bites out the admission before he can think it through.

Sherlock cocks his head to the side in confusion, “You won’t.”

And with that, they both know they’re heading to their first crime scene since he lost his sight.

\---

The case was relatively easy, even with Sherlock’s limitation, and they solve it within 24 hours.

“See? Bloody brilliant,” John exclaims with a smile once they’re home.

“John, I feel there is something I should confess to you,” he starts slowly.

John freezes, his face falling, “What?” he asks with trepidation.

“A few hours ago I started regaining my sight. It’s why the end moved so quickly.”

“You can see?” John asks in confusion.

“Not clearly yet, just indistinct outlines of things.”

“I’m sorry, I’m clearly not getting this. _What_?”

Sherlock grabs John’s face in his hands, staring at the blurry shapes he knows are his eyes and speaks slowly, “I am starting to see you.”

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, “that’s fantastic! The swelling must have gone down enough to allow some images through.”

“And with a bit more time the rest should return, as well.”

“How long do you think?”

“With the rate it’s been progressing? Maybe as early as tomorrow.”

They both allow that thought to sink in, no other words spoken to interrupt them.


	6. +1 (Worship)

John reports to work the following day, again under Sherlock’s orders. His sight has gotten a bit better since last night but still isn’t completely back. Besides, what reason would he have to stay home?

Sherlock goes about what has become his typical routine as of late, trying not to get too excited when things become more and more clear, but the feeling of immense relief he feels is practically overwhelming. He didn’t truly understand how concerned he was that his blindness would be permanent until he allowed himself to believe that it wasn’t.

To celebrate, Sherlock begins to make dinner shortly before John is due home from the surgery. His sight is nearly perfect once more.

“Am I supposed to trust you, then?” John asks in amusement as he enters the flat and finds Sherlock in the kitchen.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “I can see perfectly fine now,” he affirms without moving from facing the stove.

John moves towards him, “I mostly meant having you near anything warm that you can hurt yourself on,” his large smile is evident in his tone, but Sherlock turns to lay eyes on it anyway.

The sight stuns him. John’s face is lit up with happiness as their eyes meet. He has the sudden urge to grab John’s face and kiss him, “You’re hilarious as usual,” he says to cover the moment, turning away again.

John chuckles as he moves to the counter, sitting on it the way Sherlock has been doing for the past three weeks or so. When Sherlock moves past him to the fridge, he feels John’s eyes on him the entire time.

“God, you really _can_ see again, can’t you?” John asks reverently.

Sherlock’s sarcastic retort is cut short as he locks eyes with John again and sees the utter adoration shining within them. And he suddenly knows without a trace of doubt that John is feeling - possibly has _been_ feeling - the same pull to be close and together.

John can see the realization dawn in Sherlock’s eyes that John wants him and is nervous for just a moment before raising his chin in defiance. Challenging him.

Sherlock closes the door to the fridge without even looking away from the other man, walking towards him as though drawn beyond his control, and maybe he is. He comes to a stop between John’s legs, his hands resting on John’s hips. John lifts his hands naturally to cup his neck gently.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispers, “I can finally _see_ ,” he says with so much meaning on the final word that John can’t even try to misconstrue it as literal.

“Took you long enough, genius,” John goads him with a flirtatious smirk.

Sherlock gives him a predatory smirk of his own before slowly moving in to claim John’s lips with his own, giving him ample time to pull away if he so desires. But of course he doesn’t.

The touch of lips is electric - not anything Sherlock has ever felt before - but it absolutely pales in comparison to the _taste_ of John when he opens his mouth and begins to ravish him. John clearly has more experience than Sherlock, but John doesn’t seem to mind, because the man is finally his. That cupid’s bow, those ridiculous curls, his unexpected accident-prone tendencies, all his. And he couldn’t be happier.

John moves his left hand up to wrap in the curls while his right slides down his chest, teasing on his way to his side. Sherlock moans at the contact, unconsciously moving yet closer to the other man who in turn wraps his legs around Sherlock’s upper thighs in a stronghold.

When dinner begins to burn beside them, they break apart with a laugh. Sherlock turns off the stove and gives an embarrassed smile.

“Sorry I ruined dinner.”

“We’ll order in later,” John assures him, “for now I’ve got something else in mind.”

John pushes Sherlock away just enough to allow himself room to dismount from the counter. He does so while smoothly dragging his body along the taller man’s, and how did he ever become so graceful?

Once on the floor, John grabs Sherlock’s hand and begins to walk backwards while pulling him toward the bedroom. A few steps in he asks nervously, “Okay?”

“God yes,” Sherlock practically breathes, unable to believe that the magnificent, caring creature in front of him would ever choose him.

Sherlock, as many in the past have assumed, is in fact a virgin. He doesn’t plan to bring up this fact tonight - since he can’t understand why it would matter - but it also doesn’t make him any less sure of this next step with John. Sherlock has never felt anything, emotional or sexual, for anyone to nearly the immense degree that he does for John. That, above all else, is why he’s never engaged in sex. But John takes care of him and John accepts him for all of his faults (John thinks there’s more than there are, but Sherlock will give him that if only he’ll stick around).

As they arrive at the bed, John looks nervous - as though he’s been superimposing his wishes on to the other man – so Sherlock pulls him close for another kiss as his fingers begin to work on John’s jumper. John takes the hint and eagerly begins undoing Sherlock’s many buttons. Sherlock is grateful to find a simple t-shirt on underneath the jumper and removes it just as quickly as the other. He takes a moment to pass his eyes over the expanse of his toned torso and strong arms, not being able to stop his hands from following suit. John shivers under his touch.

Sherlock’s hands move down to the top of John’s pants. He hears John inhale sharply and he glances at him from beneath his lowered lashes, making sure he’s alright. Sherlock holds his gaze as he falls gracefully to his knees, beginning to undo the belt and flies. Sherlock grabs both trousers and pants before tilting his head questioningly to the side, clearly asking if John is fine with both being removed before he does it. John swallows thickly and then nods a few times, giving his consent.

If Sherlock claimed to have never imagined the size of John’s penis before, he’d be lying; in fact, he’d much rather boast about how accurate his assumptions had been. A nickname like “Three-Continents Watson” and a gait that makes it appear as though he’s chaffing all the time had to lead to a sizeable cock. God, he’s never been so glad to have been right.

When he helps John step from the garments and then his socks, he looks John in the eye again and smiles, “Get on the bed,” he orders seductively.

John climbs on the bed, laying on his right side in a very self-conscious, protecting way: left leg bent with knee on the bed and left arm straight, meeting in the middle to cover his modesty. Sherlock notices this but, for once, doesn’t say a word, simply begins to strip the remainder of his clothes from his body slowly, gauging John’s reaction to each movement.

John hadn’t spent quite as much time imagining Sherlock’s penis as the other man had his – at least not in any scientific way – but he was pleased to see that it was proportionate to the lanky body, long and lean like the rest of him. When Sherlock begins moving towards the bed, John lifts his gaze back to his eyes and almost stops breathing at the look of desire in the now dark blue eyes.

Sherlock crawls on to the bed predatorily, using his entire body to lead John on to his back. In the past two years, Sherlock has lost every single one of his five main physical senses, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t use each and every one of them tonight to worship this man.

He kisses him hungrily, hands moving only so far as his current position allows, not feeling a need to rush. He moves down to kiss what he has always suspected would be a particularly sensitive spot on John’s neck and is rewarded with a hand in his curls, John’s body arching up in to his as he moans, “Oh, God.”

Sherlock tastes every inch he comes across in his journey to the ultimate destination. When he reaches John’s cock, the **smell** of the musk and arousal affects him in a much stronger way than anticipated. He moans out before mouthing down along the silken flesh, wringing a moan from John in turn. He licks his way from root to tip, growing accustomed to the **taste** and **feel** for the first time, before bringing his right hand up to help aid a more comfortable position for himself.

He takes John’s cock in slowly, wetting it thoroughly as he goes, and relishes in both the taste and John’s reaction to it. He quickly accepts that he could spend hours learning each inch of this man, what he likes and dislikes. A study might need to be done, but there’s time for that later.

Sherlock loses track of time, not sure how long it is before John is pulling him up gently by his jaw. At first he questions whether he did it wrong, but then realizes that John just wants to kiss him again, and who is he to deny that? He’s so caught up in the kiss that it catches him off guard when John rolls them on the bed to switch their positions. The look in his eyes is…heated, but affectionate. Before Sherlock can figure out what that means, precisely, John is moving down his body to reciprocate the blow job in an excruciatingly talented fashion.

Then John’s tongue has moved further down and is licking Sherlock’s arse. He bucks at the sudden sensation and wonders how the hell that can feel so good.

John chuckles at his look of awe before breaking their verbal silence, “Please tell me you have lube down here.”

“Top drawer,” he pants, pointing to the bedside table to his right.

“Good man,” John praises, kissing the inside of his thigh before moving to grab it.

On his way back, Sherlock notices the hesitation on John’s face again and reaches out with his right hand to cup his cheek softly, “Yes. Please,” he answers honestly before John can even form the question.

John gives him an unsure, questioning look, as though he doesn’t think Sherlock quite understands his hesitation. So instead Sherlock pulls him down in to a burning kiss before speaking again.

“It’s always been you. I know what I’m doing.”

John’s look of adoration grows, but he closes his eyes and kisses Sherlock instead of trying to find any response that he’s certain will fall far short of what he actually wants to say anyway.

John moves back down Sherlock’s body, placing kisses as he goes, and begins to slowly prepare Sherlock with his fingers. Sherlock squirms through the feelings of too-much to not-enough to Oh-God-please-now. When John is satisfied that he won’t hurt the other man, his mind surfaces for one last responsible question.

“Shit, condom?” He looks at the beautiful sight below him longingly.

Sherlock groans in frustration, “Second drawer,” he points to the same side table.

“What? You really have some in here?” John looks honestly shocked.

“Science, John,” he explains impatiently.

John merely chuckles a, “Yeah sure,” as he moves to retrieve one. Once on, he places himself in to position, lifting Sherlock’s hips up and guiding his legs to wrap around him securely. And then he slowly enters him.

Sherlock bears down, as he knows he’s supposed to do, but the stretch is much more intense than originally anticipated with all of the preparations.

“Jesus Christ,” Sherlock forces out on a breath, eyes closed tight, as John’s hips finally meet his.

“Oh my God, Sherlock,” John pants, forehead resting on the taller man’s for a moment before he moves to kiss him tenderly and to tell him to breathe.

The pain subsides finally and Sherlock dares to open his eyes. The **sight** before him is absolutely the most magnificent thing he’s ever seen: John’s face so close to his, his concerned eyes searching his face for signs of discomfort, the sweat glistening off his body already. Honestly, it’s _glistening_. His muscles, not as bulky as his army days, still stand out impressively as he holds his own weight above Sherlock.

Sherlock’s hands move on their own accord, drawing down as far on John’s chest as they can without disrupting their bodies, causing John to involuntarily thrust forward slightly. They moan in unison before Sherlock encourages him to do it again, looking him deeply in the eye as he says his name in a way that is new to both of their ears.

And then they move together, like it’s a dance that was written just for them. Sherlock’s hands move to grasp John’s powerful arms, causing a fresh wave of lust to course through him at the feel of them, knowing they’re caging him in. Owning him.

Sherlock has a difficult time deciding what his favorite **sound** is during it all. It could be his moans and groans, caused by Sherlock’s body. It could be the curses that are uttered, the Lord’s name surely being taken in vain more times than is forgivable, as Sherlock begins to meet him thrust for thrust. But as soon as he hears his name in place of a prayer on those lips, he knows he’s found it: the only sound that will matter for the rest of his life, knowing he will strive to hear it again and again.

“God, Sherlock, I’m close,” John moans, his hips thrusting harder and deeper than before.

“John,” is the only response that Sherlock can think to moan out.

John leans down and sucks a mark in to Sherlock’s impossibly enticing neck, bringing Sherlock over the edge without any warning, a fantastically, _embarrassingly_ loud moan heralding its arrival. John rides out Sherlock’s orgasm with him, letting his inner walls milk his own from him.

They collapse, finally somehow letting each other go long enough to be rid of the condom and position themselves on their sides facing each other, sharing air as they both attempt to regain their senses.

Sherlock opens his eyes and meets John’s affectionate gaze again. His eyes, his smile, his mused up hair where Sherlock gripped it in the throes of passion…this, he amends in his head, _this_ is the most magnificent thing he’s ever seen.

“John,” he whispers, scared of the sentiment about to leave his mouth but needing to say it anyway.

“Sherlock,” John whispers back, a hint of a question on the name.

“Should this be the last thing I see, I want you to know it’s enough for me,” he says honestly, silently cursing himself for the poetic drivel spilling from his sentimental mouth.

John smiles wide before leaning forward to kiss each of his eyes tenderly in turn. When he pulls back he whispers, “Yeah. I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, “Should this be the last thing I see, I want you to know it’s enough for me” is from Tenerife Sea by Ed Sheerhan. Beautiful song.
> 
> Secondly, if you've made it this far, I humbly thank you and truly hope you enjoyed it. As always, thank you for even reading it; I hope it brought you even an iota of the satisfaction that it gave me to write it.
> 
> I would love to hear your thoughts via comment, kudos, even (preferably constructive) criticism.
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/goddess-of-the-night04) for an easy way to keep up with any new stories from me or just to chat; I'd love hear from you :)


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